Come morning we have our first sight
of green woodpeckers foraging for ants,
their colours splashing the dull of today.

Looking back

I wonder if their homes were like mine,
where little girls should be seen and not heard was served
as regularly as the Sunday roast.

My lessons began in a Silver Cross,
fully sprung, polished chrome,
me dummied quiet – just in case
the neighbours were resting

and there I am, party ready,
pink smoked dress and bolero,
black patent ankle strapsyou mind your p’s and q’s now

I’m off to school, beret straight,
gym-slip regulation lengthno talking until you’re outside, hands up if you know the answer

soon new words became routineyou’re not going out looking like that scrub that muck off your face
words that trailed behind me

all the way to growing up and wondering
if, when he put one finger on his lips
and another in their knickers,
they thought no-one would fix it.

Marilyn Hammick writes at home in England and France, and can also be found stitching, walking or on her yoga mat. Her poems have appeared in Prole, The Linnet’s Wings, The Interpreter’s House and in other print and online journals.